


In His Majesty's Service

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bond Freeform, Casino Royale based, M/M, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-15
Updated: 2010-06-15
Packaged: 2018-10-14 20:05:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10543590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: Mission's over. A morning after. Venice. Or Arthur's a bit of a James Bond.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the lovely a8c_sock and one_dreamery. Thank you both.

It's an errant ray of sun that wakes him, playing as it does on silken white sheets, crisp sheets smelling like flower essences, the best of the best, the lap of luxury, under his naked skin. Kiss and kill, snap a neck, and next writhe on sheets made to lull a girl whose skin's tender-soft into sleep. Shoot and maim and kill and die a little death; luxuriate where moguls and stars and presidents gather, the rough killer who lives to serve. In his majesty's service.

He blinks.

The room is washed in bright light, summer light, blinding light. A Venetian morning. Saint Mark, San Marco – and tourists and gondolas a few paces away, outside, and inside, there he lies sprawled on a decadent four-poster, Murano chandelier hanging over his head, and damask covering the walls. Doges and riches, incense and trade, the rampant lions of St Mark standing guard before the carved portals of a cathedral and the fourth crusade, a sacked Byzantium, all come to mind. Random information is the soul of living to see another day.

His Trusty Walter PPK is hidden under a stack of pillows.

He rolls over in bed, fully awake now, a long, pale leg brushing against his. His eyes linger on it and trail up, following the lines of a thin body, all sharp angles, Picasso cut, up to the jut of a bare hip-bone. His companion is lying on his side, nose buried in a pillow case, all bare, chest sparsely covered in dark hair, eyes screwed shut against the glare of the sun, flaccid cock resting against his thigh.

Arthur'd smile if he knew how, if the service hadn't dried him up, long ago. A double zero, a double set of numbers as a testimony of the fact that he's a ruthless paid assassin. For his country. For his country, because his father's the one who's concealed behind the letter M.

He palms the protruding hip and the other man's leg twitches.

“Merlin,” he says, not sure he wants to wake him just yet and break the bubble. He thought he'd lost him. He thought he'd lost him to them. He'd have given them the millions – screw MI6. To hell with Muirden and the Texas Hold'em game he needed to win to keep his operation afloat. He casts a glance at the briefcase full of banknotes. He'd have stood more of the torture.

Merlin stirs, languidly stretching, all naked in the sunlight but for a wristband double-tied around his wrist and its charm, an Algerian knot. Knots bind. Knots are indissoluble.

“What is it? Who's it from?” he'd asked in a Montenegro luxury hotel over a gourmet dinner. “A lover?”

“Somebody I used to be with, once.” An unreadable moue had been all he ever got out of that question.

Merlin opens his eyes and focuses on him. He smiles in greeting and leans up to bestow a kiss on Arthur's lips.

Arthur's kissed hundreds. He's kissed more than hundreds, but this – this kiss he wants to cling to. Merlin's his contact; he's more than. So Arthur opens his mouth to let Merlin's tongue tangle with his in a warm, wet mess. It slides hotly against his and under his; it retreats quickly, just a tease, and Arthur, passion fired, follows it back into Merlin's mouth and sucks on it till the kiss becomes desperate, no control and no art to it, just hunger and thirst. Can one thirst for a kiss, a mouth, a smile? Hunger for a touch, a body to feel against yours?

Gone semi-feral, he pushes Merlin down and straddles him, lapping into his mouth, neck bent to better do so.

He almost lost him.

Merlin's hands roam down his spine, soothe and caress and stir his blood, not caring if Arthur's passion is rough or crazy tender. Those fingers roam lower, skim down, and breach him. Arthur grunts into the kiss and bites on Merlin's upper lip, sucking it into his mouth next. And then he plunges in again, the tip of his tongue meeting Merlin's till he can't even kiss anymore but surrenders a series of hitched breaths into Merlin's parted mouth.

He's just his contact... he's the money for the operation, coming with the seal of approval of the Bank of England. God, he's his. Breaking all the rules.

Something's touched and Arthur growls, hips snapping in a feral movement, looking for something, a body to meet his – this one, though, this one body.

Arthur knows sex; he knows how to use the pleasures of the flesh to give and to get: information wrested on a moan, truth for an orgasm, companionship before a mission, release because you're still alive and some of those you've known and left behind are not. He's cynical. There's no such thing as romance. The mission before anything, love, family, everything. There's self-sacrifice.

And this is not it. Arthur has no name to call this. But he'll accept the lies; he'll be the pawn. He won't see what's there to see. Merlin finger curls and rubs and Arthur keens, pushing his cock up and down against Merlin's flat belly.

Merlin hooks a leg over Arthur's shoulder, the other tensing next to Arthur's hip as Arthur leans over him, arms braced. Arthur slides down. And Merlin's open and slick from the night before, from a few hours before, so Arthur slips inside him, pauses there, sweat breaking up on the skin of his forehead, as he feels Merlin's limbs tensing under him, and Merlin closing in on him, soft and warm and tight still – beyond belief.

Merlin's looking into his eyes, chest rising and falling against his in a syncopated rhythm. Arthur spreads Merlin's legs further with his own and pushes in. He rocks slowly inside him, gaining inch upon careful inch.

Merlin doesn't say his name; he doesn't close his eyes or throw his head back. He stares, touches Arthur, the bruised and mottled skin from the run in with Muirden's gang and pulls him down, till Arthur crumples over him and can do nothing more than shallowly thrust forward. His retreats are minimal; he just rocks on, steady and careful. A drop of sweat falls into his eye, and Merlin brushes his hair back.

Arthur can hear the sounds they're making, the animal ones he's contributing, Merlin's almost silent gasps, the rustling of the sheets.

He tries to get some leverage and slams deeper in. Merlin wets his lips; one of his hands has retreated to cradle the small of Arthur's back, his other one clamping around Arthur's trembling elbow.

On his knees, Arthur slams his hips forward, pushing as far as he can, till it hurts a little. Despite that, Merlin flexes his hips to meet his every surge and when Arthur's all but gone, he kisses his lips one last time. Merlin touches himself briefly, hands barely skimming his length and comes. A smile and suppressed shivers are all there is to advertise the fact.

Instinct takes over for Arthur; he picks up his pace and while he tries to untie the knot on Merlin's wrist, he comes, heat and pleasure flooding him till he's almost too far gone to understand anything. He hasn't untied the knot. Before toppling down, he kisses the hollow of Merlin's throat.

When he opens his eyes again, Merlin's showered and dressed. He's wearing a suit-shirt and a tie despite the heat of a summer day in the Laguna. He's still in shirt-sleeves and waistcoat, though, and he's sitting in a velvet chair he's placed before the bed, as if he's been contemplating Arthur's sleeping form.

“Where are you going?” Arthur asks, pushing away the cobwebs of sleep.

“Forgetting that my bank loaned the government the money needed to play against Edwin? Or did M want to get his hands on Edwin and retain the average tax payer's money? I need to deposit the sum that was loaned to you back on the accounts they originate from.”

Merlin flashes him a flirty smile and looks at him from under his lashes, blue eyes murky like deep waters during a storm.

“Can't you come back to bed? M knows the money's safe with me.”

Merlin shakes his head ruefully. “My boss doesn't. I'll get fired over this if I don't report back. It's not lollipops, you know.” He rises, crosses the suite to come and lean over Arthur's body. He places his hand on Arthur's hip and kisses his jaw, the side of his neck. Arthur grasps his arm as if he doesn't want to let go. There's something about Merlin...

“Back in London, we'll have all the time in the world,” he tells Arthur.

Arthur reluctantly releases him.

“Sleep some more,” Merlin says.

Arthur watches him as he retrieves his jacket and puts it on, looking like any high level bank employee in the world would look. He picks up the shiny brief-case containing the two million used to take part in the game at Casino Royale; and walks out, door clicking shut behind him.

Alone, Arthur showers and dresses. He's just ordered room service when he realises Merlin's left his mobile behind.

Knowing, knowing, having always subliminally known, Arthur walks over to the writing desk and picks it up. He reads the last incoming text.

It's the proof of Merlin's betrayal. Money's gone; Merlin's gone.

Still browsing the texts, Arthur rushes out of the hotel room and runs to the nearest bank office. Of course, Merlin's never been there. There's a history in texts that proves that Merlin has been a double agent from the moment he came into the picture. Breach of trust. Lies. Omissions and a mysterious young man who's never confided in him. But why? Why? He's certain it's not the money Merlin's after or the riches. He's ready to bet he hasn't sold his services to another country or a criminal. And then Arthur remembers the wrist band, the Algerian knot and who knows who Merlin's done it for? For the person behind the knot. J –

just as he asks himself that, Arthur understands who Merlin left the texts to find for. No coincidence. Nothing ever is in his world of crossing double agents, criminals and spies. If he's kept his secret close till now... There's a reason if the secret is no longer such.

For a moment Arthur hates Merlin for having been able to walk all over him, for teaching him need when he's never felt anything but the desire to please his father and, via him, to serve and protect his country.

Then a thought darts into his brain and Arthur can only hope he's still on time. That they haven't used Merlin the same way Edwin himself was used.

He can hate him; he still needs to save him above all else.

 

The End


End file.
